6.11.06

sometimes it feels like pullin weeds used toDad would gimme and brother powdered milk potsthey held about a gallon o weedsbut not just any weedused to stuff the bottom with other garden-variety type weedshe would come halfway through our morning workstick his hand down the pot and pull out handfuls, if he saw our trick, he would empty our pot“Start over again” he would say

Corosillo. Don’t know what the name means it's a handsome weed I thinklong sword like leaves, bright greencovered in shiny film and the stalk whitelooked like leeks but smallerwhat you didn’t see were rootsspreading for meters under sightwith little pepitas like nerve centerssending out signals to other Corosilloslike satellites, broadcasting in secret code their plan to rule the river rock backyardthat He’d worked so hard to make good

Corosillo was our enemyafter picking through the river rocks enoughto fill one pot, packed down and topped offfingertips turned sore cuticles were sometimesbloodied and torn from diving and pinching amongst stonesbut it gave a sense of finalitythe work was done -good workstill plenty of Corosillo therefor tomorrow morning when school was outbut you’d finished the assignmentcompleted it with sweat and sometimes a little blood and youKnew that when he stuck his hand down there it would be only Corosillo from top to bottomhe wouldn’t applaud or pay for the workhe would say “good work now your finished you can go and play”and we would play -pirates, make forts,Brother welding and carving his first muzzleloadersfor backwoods hunting to come